Good Will
by Sepik
Summary: The challenge, as it had always been, was keeping a secret.


Summary: The challenge, as it had always been, was keeping a secret.

Rating: K

Warnings: None

Disclaimer: Only the fic is my own – the characters belong to their respective copy-right owners.

Author's Note: I wanted to write something adorable. I hope I succeeded! All criticisms and suggestions welcome.

-

Good Will

The challenge, as it had always been, was keeping a secret.

Watson had long known that Holmes' ability to not merely see, but observe, made surprises near-impossible. For quite a time, this understanding was irrelevant – he had no secrets to keep from Holmes, other than those that all men guard close to their hearts and that cannot be discerned from mere physical appearance. But as Christmas slowly crept to a date closer and closer to 'today' the topic of gifts came up in conversation.

"Exchange presents? Really Watson? I would think that your high-minded, educated self would be past such sentiments."

"They're not sentiments, Holmes. They're merely a way to spread good will."

The two perched upon their usual places in Holmes' room, in black, adjacent leather chairs well worn and stained by a variety of tobacco and chemicals. Watson lounged, leaning backwards towards the uncurtained window, sunlight from the fading day lighting itself upon him. Holmes leaned away from the light into the high-backed chair, feet kicked up upon the small, cluttered table. His booted foot twitched aimlessly, and Watson noticed immediately, and then wondered if Holmes' intended for him to notice. Of course he did, Watson quickly admitted.

"Your foot is twitching," Watson pointed out. "You only do that if you're nervous, hungry, or contemplative."

"How astute," Holmes commented, foot suddenly resting still. "I'm currently of the middle disposition. Shall you fetch Mrs. Hudson and make your observation useful?"

"I think you are quite capable of walking down a flight of stairs."

"Ah, but those 17 stairs are quite the daunting challenge to a man as famished as I. Surely your kindhearted nature will take pity?"

Watson snorted.

"Darn you," Holmes said cheerfully, and shifted his weight to gain a more comfortable position.

"All right, then how about a specific food for Christmas? I could fetch a treat from Bantley's Bakery, or maybe one of Mrs. Oakshott's geese?"

"Really, what is it with your insistence on giving me a gift? I hope you're not assuming it's going to be reciprocated."

"I know you well enough, hah! It's just my tradition to give a gift of some sort on the holiday. A family habit that I prefer not to go without." Noticing that Holmes had retrieved his violin from the floor, he asked, "What about resin? Do you need any?"

Holmes sighed, and plucked a few cheerful chords. He continued on until the familiar melody of 'We Three Kings' became obvious, and then suddenly stopped.

"Isn't the point of gift giving is that it involves a surprise?" Holmes asked with a challenging lilt.

"Yes, but with you that's quite impossible, so I'm settling for assurance that you'll like whatever I give you."

"Come now. You've been around me long enough to have surely gained some of my ability of observation. Deduce! Reason! Figure out for yourself what would be a good gift!"

Holmes suddenly stood and walked to the doorway, managing to step around the various articles strewn upon the floor. Gladstone, sitting comfortably in the corner upon an old coat, perked his head up and watched the detective walk by. Holmes grabbed from the floor a cravat, and tied it around his neck.

"As I said earlier, I have an appointment I must attend to. Until later, Watson." Holmes turned and left the room. Watson listened to the footfalls all the way down to the bottom level, and counted seventeen. The door opened and closed, and Holmes was gone from the building, his presence noticeably absent. And then Watson was lost in thought, thinking wistfully through past conversations and events, trying to arrive at the perfect gift.

Time passed by as the room darkened with the passage of the evening, until suddenly Watson sprang from his chair and shouted, "I have it!"

Gladstone perked his head up once more, seemed to shake it silently, and then went back to napping.

-

For the next week, as London's air filled with festivities and snow, Watson left the apartment every night promptly at seven, and returned by eight. Each time he would offer a different excuse to Holmes, and each time Holmes would merely grunt in indifference, buried in either a book, a newspaper, or an improvised piece upon his violin. And each time Watson grinned heartily to himself, for he could feel the curiosity emanating from Holmes.

Every return brought a cursory glance from Holmes, and Watson could sense the gears turning, questions coming up with only more questions. Oh, he had been careful. Each night he had walked through a different area of London, the first time through Pinchin Lane, the next only in circles around Baker Street. He had gone as far as the docks one evening, and then suddenly one night not left at all. And finally, now on Christmas Eve, after a solid week and a half of his mysterious nightly strolls, Watson rose from the overstuffed chair, and announced to Holmes that he would be leaving once again.

Finally, after days and days of a stubborn silence in regards to the strange behavior, Holmes spoke up.

"Where on earth are you going, Watson! It's Christmas Eve!"

"Oh, don't worry. I will be back at eight precise. Just a small matter to attend to."

And with that vague explanation he left the apartment, coat heavy upon his shoulders, before Holmes could respond. The air was cold and silent on this quiet night, and he missed the customary smell of tobacco. The streets were nearly empty – everyone was either already home with family or rushing to do so, the rest already holed away in bars lamenting with fellow lonely souls, drink dulling that particular melancholy only Christmas can bring about.

Watson walked a block, boots crunching in the melted and refrozen snow. The weather was holding off for now, but soon new flakes would be falling, adding to the hush. He quickly darted into an alleyway, and then into another street. Dashing behind a parked carriage, and then behind an empty stall, he was careful to keep a predictable and meandering path. He then listened hard, but heard nothing save the expected noises of London. Watson then peeked around his vantage point, the perfect place to be within the line of sight of his apartment door.

A minute passed as he waited, and then another, and the slight worry that he had guessed his friend's habits wrong caused a moment of panic. But then there was the slightest click, and Holmes emerged from the doorway, looking furtively left and right. He closed the door behind him, and then casually began to follow Watson's trail. The familiar comparison of a bloodhound readily returned to the doctor's mind, and he grinned in the lamplight.

The timing was perfect. Watson immediately continued on his walk, quickening his pace while careful to keep his stride the same length and his weight normally balanced so as not to leave different impressions in the snow. After a few minutes of this, he returned to a normal walking pace, caught up in the distance to make it seem as if he had never paused his journey. He then walked on and on, confident that his friend was tracking him, until he came to one of the great street crossings.

Here was not as empty, and a few people hustled about, even one street vendor still selling his wares. Carriages crossed the empty expanse of street, and Watson walked through the middle of it during a lull in the slight traffic. He watched behind him as his footsteps disappeared into carriage tracks, and then quickly hurried on, making a large circle that would eventually bring him back to Baker Street.

-

Watson cheerfully climbed his way up the stairs of their apartment, at exactly eight o'clock, and found Holmes sitting in the same chair as before, as if the man had not moved the entire hour. He jovially greeted Holmes.

"Oh, Christmas gives such a wonderful feel to the air! All the joy and the excitement around, it feels good just to walk the streets, even on a cold night."

"Hm," Holmes gave as a noncommittal sound. He suddenly jumped up from the chair and looked Watson up and down. "Snow still on the tips of your coat... none melted, which indicates you've really been outside this whole time." He touched his hand to Watson's cheeks, who just raised an eyebrow in response. "And still cold, just now turning red, to reinforce that this is your first visit to a heated setting within the last twenty minutes."

As Holmes continued his inspection, Watson asked casually, "Is there something the matter, Holmes?"

"Oh, nothing at all. Just that a box appeared in my chair when I wasn't looking a few minutes ago."

"A box?"

"Yes, a box. Grey. Tied with a broad red and gold ribbon."

"I see."

"Well, yes, anyways!" Said Holmes, clapping his hands together and turning on his heel. He picked up the box from a nearby table, and held it up for Watson to see. "Look familiar?"

"Why? You don't suspect I had something to do with it, do you?"

The two were silent for a moment, and then Holmes burst out laughing. "You put me on a wild goose-chase just so you could give me a present. Not as clever as what I'd expect from you, but amusing just the same!"

"Then tell me – how did the present get there?"

Holmes opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. He then sat down with a humph onto his chair, and began examining the box. "New. No scratches save one on the side, most likely from being carried in a pocket that also held another object. No other marks on the box, which indicates it musn't be with a major company, for they always label. The bow was cut, rather than torn, and the knot is tied meticulously, but only with a basic twist, showing care."

Watson sat down on a stool beside him, and stretched out his leg, propping his cane up against the side of Holmes' chair.

"Now, every night, excluding that one four days ago, you have left for an exact amount of time, each day giving a new and mundane excuse. Always just enough of a mud splatter on your shoes, or the scent of a distinct smell, for me to know that you went to a new place each time. An obvious ploy to garner my interest so that I would leave the house tonight so that you could place this... gift... into my possession."

"Oh, do carry on," Watson nodded in encouragement. Holmes rolled his eyes.

"So tonight, I made certain the windows were locked, and even took the liberty to tie a string across the doors of the building as I left so that if you entered, I would know it. No broken string, and you have obviously been about the city this whole time. So the question is, how did you make the box appear in my chair?"

"I know. I already asked you that."

Holmes ignored him and continued. "You've obviously tried to outsmart me, most definitely with some extreme scheme, which is an admirable want but an impossible feat -"

"Improbable."

"- to accomplish," Holmes finished, glaring.

"You could always open the present."

"No! Not until the mystery is solved!"

With this Watson broke into a wide grin, and Holmes' suspicions were realized.

"The mystery _is_ the present."

"Oh, two gifts is all, dear friend."

"But how did you do it!" Holmes demanded, more to himself than Watson. "No one has come in or out of this building, the door to my room is locked, and you have been outside this whole time! The few other tenants have all left for the holiday to see other family, and Mrs. Hudson left for her sisters' earlier this evening. Unless you trained Gladstone to do something besides sleep, and had him take it from hiding while I was away, I don't see how you could have pulled this off."

Watson smirked.

"A mystery the great Sherlock Holmes can't solve?"

"Bah!" He shouted in response, and jumped up from the chair, box still in hand. He then ran to the couch and landed on it quickly, comfortable in his customary thinking space. Holmes then tilted his head up to the ceiling, and his eyes unfocused as he drifted away into his own mind. After about a minute he looked back at Watson, a bemused expression on his face.

"As I recall, I never heard Mrs. Hudson actually leave the premises."

"Oh?"

"I never heard a door open and shut."

"So odd."

"She didn't go to her sister's, did she?"

"If I'm not mistaken, I think her sister will be arriving here any minute now, for a late dinner. They plan to spend the holiday together – Mrs. Tallay will even be spending the night."

"But she told us both that she would be leaving for her sister's."

"Yes."

"You got her to _lie_?"

"Believe me, it didn't take much convincing. A chance to pull one over you is something she's been waiting for. I think it's her small revenge for the latest bullet holes in the wall."

"Fascinating."

"Well, are you going to open the present, then?" Watson asked, getting up and walking toward Holmes, pulling a stool with him. He settled himself next to the couch and looked on expectantly. "You're not going to be able to guess what it is from the box. I made sure of that much at least."

"Hm, hm," Holmes muttered, and carefully snapped the bow, letting it fall to the floor. He then opened the box with a click, and pulled out a silver pocket-watch. He grinned. "Thank you, my dear Watson! Just what I needed."

Holmes then proceeded to fumble around in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a watch chain already fastened to his pants. He then clasped the watch to it, and tucked them both back into his pocket. Watson furrowed his brow, and then burst out, "But how did you know!"

"Deduction, simply deduction. What else could you have gotten me?"

Holmes failed to mention the other items he had laying around the apartment specifically for the occasion – new violin strings, a patch with his name stitched upon it ready to be sewn onto a hat, clean plates and utensils, amongst a variety of others, all items that would compliment any conceivable gift Watson could have chosen.

All of a sudden they were both struck by the strong smell of alcohol. Gladstone ambled over, and then suddenly teetered onto the floor, letting out a happy bark.

"Well, that wasn't supposed to happen."

"Holmes... Is Gladstone drunk?"

"How astute."

"_Why?_"

"Well, I believe he found your Christmas present."

"You got me a present!"

"Yes, of course. What kind of a roommate do you think I am? Anyways, I hid it behind the couch, because you never look behind there, not after the unfortunate incident with the scones. But our dog seems to have found it before I could give it to you. I wonder..."

Holmes leaned over and looked behind the couch, and then jumped up, and began searching the room. Off in the corner he found the bottle, which had evidently been dragged there by the persistent canine. The cork had been bitten off, and Holmes held the bottle to his ear and shook it.

"Ah, good! There's still some left. Here, Watson. Your favorite brew, from Bailey's Pub."

Watson took the bottle, grinned, and took a swig. He handed it back to Holmes, who did the same.

"Merry Christmas, Holmes! Thank you."

"Merry Christmas to you as well. I think good will has sufficiently been spread."

They both eyed the dog. Gladstone barked in agreement.


End file.
